Quantum Care Anywhere
by majhoulihan
Summary: Sequel to Q*U*A*N*T*U*M L*E*A*P, Sam's back at the MASH


# Quantum Care Anywhere

### (Q*U*A*N*T*U*M L*E*A*P, part two)

#### a _Quantum Leap_/_M*A*S*H_ crossover fan fiction

#### by [Kathryn Lively][1]

This Quantum Leap fan fiction is a sequel to [_Q*U*A*N*T*U*M L*E*A*P_][2], where Sam finds himself back at the 4077th M*A*S*H unit, this time occupying the body of Father Mulcahy. Though Sam suffers a case of Swiss-Cheese memory from constantly leaping across time, he does have memories of his last visit to this certain time during the Korean War. A year has passed since the last time Sam was there, and much has happened. Radar O'Reilly has gone home and is replaced in the clerk's office by Max Klinger, Frank Burns is also gone, Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan married...and divorced, and Hawkeye and B.J. have a new roommate in the uppity Boston surgeon, Major Charles Winchester III.

In this story, relations between Margaret and Hawkeye have mellowed, but other problems have resurfaced. Patients are dying, and it looks to be due to poor post-surgery medical care. This time the fingers are pointed at Margaret, who faces not only a court-martial but severe criminal charges, and it is up to Sam, as the 4077th's chaplain, to clear her name and preserve her future...and that of his brother, Tom.

Since launching my first _QL/M*A*S*H_ fan fiction, I have received much positive response, and I hope you will enjoy this sequel as much as the original story.

_Quantum Leap_ is a property of Belisarius Productions and MCA/Universal. _M*A*S*H_, is owned by Twentieth Century Fox. No profit is made from this site. Any comments regarding the writing are welcome. 

**A note on Major Freedman**--Die-hard _M*A*S*H_ers will know that Major Freedman (played by Allan Arbus) is recurring character on _M*A*S*H_. Freedman was an Army psychiatrist who made regular visits to the 4077th to counsel injured patients and, at time, the doctors and nurses at the camp (there is a great episode featuring Freedman where he helps Hawkeye with the doctor's insomnia). Like Col. Flagg, Freedman averaged an episode a season and is one of the more popular recurring characters on the show. According to the _M*A*S*H_ FAQ, Freedman went by two names during the series, Milton and Sidney. For this fan fiction, I will use Sidney.

**A note on Alia**--Alia, AKA The Evil Leaper, was introduced on the _Quantum Leap_ series during the last season and, like Sam, must Leap from time to time to change history. The only difference is, Alia is driven by a much darker force to change history for the worse. Her hologram companion is Zoey, who can see Sam when he is revealed (Sam cannot see her, though). Likewise, it is the same with Al, and Sam and Alia are made aware of each other's presence when they touch. It is partly because of Alia that Sam is back at the 4077th.

### Prologue

_March 12, 1953, 4077th MASH Unit, Korea_

"Father?"

Father Mulcahy, face down in his Bible, looked up to see a heavily bandaged hand struggling to rise from underneath an immaculate hospital bedsheet. Its owner had arrived from the front only hours before and had just been transferred to the 4077th M*A*S*H unit's recovery room after intensive surgery to remove the shrapnel from his arms and stomach. The boy was certainly fortunate to be alive after such an ordeal, and the good priest knew the last thing the private needed to do was exert himself further. 

"Oh, son, please," Mulcahy sprang from his chair and crossed the room to the boy's cot. "No need to beckon me. You just rest that arm, you're going to need it later." 

A weak smile curved upward on the boy's face, and Mulcahy felt a sad pang in his heart. He could have been no older than seventeen. "Are you feeling okay? Do you need a nurse?" he asked. Nurse Kellye, currently on duty, had slipped away for a moment to retrieve some supplies. 

"Oh, no, Father," the boy croaked, then coughed. The priest instinctively produced a handkerchief and gave it to the soldier. "What time is it?" he asked the priest. 

"It's well after midnight, most of the camp is asleep, a rarity in these parts. Usually we would hear helicopters approaching to bring more wounded." Mulcahy stole a glance at his surroundings--all of the cots in recovery were occupied by snoozing soldiers, some with IV needles sticking into pale arms, others with gauze-wrapped heads and bruised skin. After almost three years of service as camp chaplain, he still had trouble adjusting to the sight of broken bodies and the smell of pain...and, at times, death. He made a silent promise to pray harder for their spiritual and mental recoveries and turned his attentions back to the private. 

"You couldn't sleep either, Father?" 

Mulcahy chuckled softly. "You ever hear the saying, 'Go to sleep and give your problems to God, because He'll be up all night anyway'? Well, sometimes I like to stay up and keep Him company." 

"I guess sleep isn't much an option around here, what with all the injured people coming in and out," the private mused. 

"It does get busy at times," Mulcahy nodded as Nurse Kellye quietly returned, her arms laden with gauze rolls and other items. "We knew it wasn't a nine-to-five job when we arrived, we're certainly kept on our toes here, and sweltering in Korea isn't exactly my idea of a good time, Private...uh..." he leaned over and snatched the soldier's chart from the foot of the cot, "...Private Fitzgerald. But to be able to rescue so many young men from the brink of death is certainly very rewarding." Mulcahy's smile fell, thinking of the reward that would eventually be bestowed upon those who fully recovered--a one-way trip back to the front. _Sweet Mary, Mother of God, pray for us all_, he quietly prayed. 

Private Fitzgerald attempted to turn on his side, but the pain in his torso was too sharp. "Father, I haven't been to Mass since I got here..." 

Mulcahy held up his hand. He understood. 

"Therefore I haven't received any Sacraments," the soldier continued. "Do you suppose you could hear my confession now?" 

Mulcahy noted the sudden seriousness on the boy's face. "Well, of course. B-but, wouldn't you prefer to wait until morning when you are better rested?" 

Fitzgerald coughed into the priest's handkerchief. "I'd rather just do it now, while my thoughts are fresh, Father. I figure, since we're both up...you know." 

"I see," Mulcahy said. "I'm sorry, I can't help but detect some urgency in your voice. Is there something else that has you concerned?" 

Fitzgerald lowered his eyes. "It's just...well, Father, I got this feeling I won't be leaving Korea alive." 

"Don't say that!" Mulcahy cried, then, realizing where he was, lowered his voice. "The best doctors in the Army are right here in the 4077th. I was there when Dr. Hunnicut patched you up, and I'll tell you I wouldn't hesitate to have that man operate on me, if needed. _You_ are going to be just fine, Private." 

Fitzgerald's sad smile returned. "It must be easy to be confident with God on your side." 

"God is on _your_ side, too. Don't forget that." 

"So God's an American?" came a soft, witty retort. 

"God knows no nationality, son. He loves _all_ of us, even during the times when it looks as if we have nothing better to do than fight. To tell you true, I believe it must be breaking His heart to see this war and the destruction that has resulted from it." Father Mulcahy studied the boy's chart, searching for something to take their minds off death. According to what he saw, Fitzgerald had not been in Korea long, and with the exception of being allergic to morphine, he was quite a healthy lad. _Was_, Mulchay noted, but young bones were strong. "Ah, I see you're from Louisville. Horse country." 

"Bourbon country, too." Fitzgerald smiled. "Went to St. X. Straight As, first-string quarterback...if I ever get out of there, I plan to get my law degree. I've already been accepted to Notre Dame and Fordham." 

The priest nodded, wincing at the word _if_. Such talk disturbed him; he always strived to keep an optimistic mindset around the soldiers. "Well, _when_ you get home, I'm sure you will make an excellent lawyer. You have a good choice of schools, though I'm a bit partial to Loyola." He laughed, and the boy joined him. 

The body on the cot next to Fitzgerald's roused slightly, and Kellye rushed over to aid him. A concerned glance from the nurse asked Mulcahy to lower the volume of the conversation. The priest nodded and whispered to Fitzgerald, "I would never refuse to administer the Sacraments to anyone. If you're still up to it, I'm here." 

Fitzgerald concurred, and both men Crossed themselves before solemnly engaging in the Sacrament of Reconcilition. Mulcahy listened to Fitzgerald's careful, quiet voice as Kellye, fearing she may be invading their privacy, turned all her concentration to another sleeping patient. 

### *** * ***

Private Fitzgerald fell immediately into a deep slumber after hearing Mulcahy's final prayers, and the priest nodded quietly to Kellye before retreating to his quarters. When sleep would not come, he spent the silent hours praying for the well-being of everyone involved in the war and their families, but his thoughts kept returning to young Fitzgerald and the frightened look on his face. 

More than his own untimely death, the boy feared the reproval of God who created him...the Saviour who died for him and whose Heart was in agony over the deeds Fitzgerald had done in Korea, all for a war he did not understand. All for a war he was thrust into not one week after graduating from high school...it happened so fast, he told the priest. No sooner than was he handed his diploma did someone replace it with a rifle. Would God forgive him for what he was ordered to do with it? Mulcahy assured the boy that He would, that Jesus was infinitely forgiving. 

As he knelt motionless against his cot, immersed in prayer, Mulcahy still believed that. Jesus would forgive Private Fitzgerald, and by granting the boy the finest medical care in Asia, Jesus would also spare his life. 

He prayed straight until dawn, something he had not done since seminary and something he not attempted at camp before; as the only cleric at the 4077th, Mulcahy knew he needed to be rested in order to be of service in such a tense environment. He also had to stay alert, and after dressing in clean clothes he made a bee-line to the mess tent for a mug of hot coffee, reminding himself to be thankful for what he was about to receive, regardless of quality. 

There was much to be done today, Mulcahy thought to himself. Fitzgerald would be awake soon, and he would visit with the boy again for moral support, and arrange to administer Holy Communion to him. Then, he would write a long letter to his parents in Kentucky informing them of his positive prognosis and offering his own thoughts and prayers toward the young private's future. 

He had just opened the mess door when a young, blond nurse bolted from OR and screamed for the chaplain. "Father! Father! We need you in recovery, now." 

Mulcahy turned from the door and approached the nurse. "What is it?" 

The nurse gasped for air. "Private Fitzgerald, Father. He wants you for Last Rites. I think we're losing him." 

Mulcahy turned and followed the sprinting nurse, all the while feeling his jacket pockets for his vestments and booklet of rites. He knew all the prayers by heart, however, and on occasion he had to recite them, but he did not think he would they would be needed today. What had happened to change Fitzgerald's condition so quickly? Why him? 

As he ran, he felt a sharp tingling in his legs, starting first in his feet, then shooting up his shins and thighs. His pace seemed to slow significantly even though his body was still running. _Oh, my Lord, please help me!_ he cried out in his mind. _Please don't take the boy just yet. He's not ready to go, and we're not ready to let him go. But if that is Your Will, grant me at least one moment to say goodbye and administer the rites!_

He tried to breathe, but the air around him was heavy. He felt suddenly frozen in his own body, and within seconds his conciousness faded into black. For that one brief moment beforehand, Mulcahy considered the possibility that God has answered him by exchanging his own life for that of Private Fitzgerald. He was not aware that another man would be taking his place in life. 

### * * *

_November 1, 2005, Quantum Leap HQ, New Mexico_

"Hey, Verbena, a little help here?! 

The words flew out of Admiral Al Calavicci's mouth in a high-pitched squeal. He had never felt this much fear in his now pounding heart in years, not since his days as a P.O.W. in the jungles of Vietnam. He had entered the room to greet the latest personality to be displaced into the body of Dr. Sam Beckett, whose own persona was God-knows-where at this moment -- Al hadn't bothered to check the handlink clutched in his shaking, sweating hand -- and instead finding the scientist's body lying motionless on the floor, eyes closed and mouth open as if he had just let loose his final breath. 

Al knelt down beside 'Sam', dropping the handlink and checking his wrist for a pulse. The beats were few and far between, which only heightened Al's anxiety. Was Sam having a heart attack, he wondered, or was this shock on the patient's part? He wasn't a doctor like many of his colleagues at Project Quantum Leap, but he was smart enough to know that Sam would be needing a coroner if Dr. Beeks did not arrive soon. 

Just as he finished that thought, Dr. Verbena Beeks rushed in on cue, narrowly crashing into the slowly opening doors. Diving to the ground next to Sam, she pried open one of the doctor's eyelids and studied a glazed eye which appeared to glare back. "How's his breathing?" 

"Nil," Al answred gruffly. 

Verbena bent forward, her ear to Sam's nose, and confirmed the admiral's assessment. "We still don't know who's in there, and I don't want to administer any shots if there's a chance of an allergic reaction..." She looked up. "I hope they taught you CPR in the Navy." 

Al had removed his coat and was already rolling up the sleeves of his eggplant shirt. "I'll pump and count, you breathe." 

Verbena nodded and opened Sam's mouth. Gently pinching Sam's nostrils shut, she listened carefully to Al's barking count as he pressed into Sam's chest before breathing, urging air into Sam's lungs and hopefully sparking life and movement back into his body. 

After five counts, Sam's head twitched and he let out an awful cough. Verbena rocked back on her heels and sighed. They brought him back, whoever he was. 

Al sighed with relief. "Thank you, God," he whispered, prompting a curious glance from Verbena. It was unusual for Al, the project's agnostic, to invoke the name of God, Buddha, or anyone else viewed as a deity. Thinking perhaps the utterance came as a gut reaction and not as an actual prayer, Verbena turned back to Sam and stroked the prone doctor's damp forehead. 

Eyelids fluttered slowly, and Sam's head wobbled left and right. As if experiencing a full force nightmare, his brows furrowed and he spoke in rapid shards. "Private. Private Fitzgerald..._Pater noster_... _qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum_... 

Verbena looked up at Al, her eyebrows furrowed, struggling to recall the Latin she had ingested years ago in preparation for medical school. When Sam's right arm raised sharply to clutch the sky, however, the ancient words were forgotten and she gently tried to calm the quivering body lying before her. 

"'Our Father, Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name,' in case you were wondering," Al said. For some reason, all of the Latin _he_ had learned during his days in the orphanage would not dissolve, as had numerous automated teller machine passwords and his past wedding anniversaries. He reached behind his back for the handlink, which chirped and sputtered with urgency. "I'll lay you odds he's a priest this time. Pre-Vatican II. Nobody prays in Latin anymore these days." 

"Except perhaps Latin teachers," Verbena offered. Al did not smile at her attempted joke; one look at the script blinking in the handlink turned his face pale. 

"Oh no," he whispered. 

Before Verbena could ask what was wrong, Al was on his feet, barking an order to the ceiling for Ziggy to send security down to the waiting room. "And a med team, too!" he added. "We can't risk Sam having another attack." 

To Verbena he said, "Do everything you can to keep him comfortable and let me know the second he wakes up." With that, he straightened the sleeves of his shirt as he bolted for the door. 

"O-of course, Admiral," Verbena managed to say. "What's wrong, though? Is Sam in danger right now?" 

"No," Al was grim. "His brother is." 

### * * *

_March 13, 1953, 4077th MASH Unit, Korea_

The first thing Sam saw as his body and mind adjusted to his new surroundings was the dog-eared cover of Father Francis Mulcahy's Douay-Rheims Bible, trembling softly in his grip. He was wearing glasses, they cut into the bridge of his nose and made it itch. The cacophony surrounding him remained muzzled for a few seconds, then exploded in his ears as an unexpected slap hit his shoulder. The doctor standing behind Sam gently pushed him toward a cot where a cluster of white-clad figures were already congregated. 

"Whatever prayers you have for this kid, Father, should be prayed quickly while he's still concious," rattled a voice with a heavy Boston accent in Sam's ear. "I only hope the good Lord doesn't take off points for that." 

_Father, prayers, priest...I'm a priest...oh, boy._ The words swam in Sam's thoughts as he let himself be directed closer to the cot. Now the noises were in full volume -- a young's man painful howl, a distressed order for a roll of gauze, and Sam's own nervous breathing as he looked down at shining crucifix hanging from his neck. The solemn miniature head of Christ twinkled and rocked against his chest. 

_God help me, I don't know what to do_, Sam prayed. He had never leapt into a priest before, though he remembered much of his Bible thanks to a devout Methodist rearing. _Just have mercy on this poor man's soul_, he added silently, _and mine, too, while You're at it_. 

Private Fitzgerald's eyes fluttered, his mouth rounded as he sucked in air through his teeth. "Father," he whispered as several arms poked and prodded his beaten body. "I'm scared...what's going to happen to me?" 

Slowly Sam surveyed his surroundings -- a makeshift hospital draped in olive drab with archaic medical equipment strung around pristine cots. Back in the military, he surmised. Vietnam? A possibility. Then again, this place looked eerily familiar. 

He peered over two of the medical staff and saw first-hand the glimmer of fear reflected in the boy's eyes. Had Tom looked like that, Sam wondered, as death approached him with bony fingers and a ghoulish grin? That was a history now destroyed, Sam knew. Tom Beckett survived Vietnam, he survived war and eluded the frigid snatch of the Reaper. Question was, would this boy manage the same thing? 

Suddenly Private Fitzerald's eyes rolled to the back of his head and his torso heaved upward as if a magnet were pulling him to the ceiling. The doctor with the New England accent, a thick, unsmiling bald man, elbowed Sam toward the back wall. "Father, we truly could use the space you are occupying to tend to this boy, so I would suggest that whatever message you have from the Almighty be delivered promptly. Major!" 

At the doctor's command, a slim blond nurse rushed to Fitzgerald's cot, the tail of her own white coat flapping behind her as she tested the syringe of the hyperdermic needle she quickly inserted into the boy's left arm. Sam opened his mouth to improvise a prayer which he hoped would sound Catholic enough to appease the dying boy when he caught her concerned glance. 

_Margaret Houlihan!_ Sam's heart leapt into his mouth. 

"Oh, God," he blurted, caught by surprise as a nurse's head solemnly bowed. "Uh, oh, God, in Heaven," he cautiously continued. "Grant eternal life in Your Kingdom for Your repentant child..." he searched the scattered remains of the priest's memory still present in his own consciousness, "um, Private Fitzgerald, that You, Christ our King, may welcome him into You Presence with Your Blessed Mother, Mary, and all Your saints." 

Sam let out a loud sigh. Private Fitzgerald appeared to calm down and let whatever it was injected into him take affect. "Will Jesus forgive me, Father?" he asked, his voice breaking. 

"Jesus is infinitely forgiving," Sam replied. Of that he was certain. "Talk to Him now. I'll pray with you." 

Private Fitzgerald closed his eyes. His chest sank and his breathing simmered into near quiet. The doctor's eyes widened in shock. 

"What's this?" he cried. "That shot was supposed to fix everything, but we're losing him!" He forcefully tore the clean white shirt from the boy's chest and began CPR. "Major, some help, please?" 

Major Margaret Houlihan, too stunned to move, slowly moved her hand toward the young soldier's face. Only when the doctor barked at her more angrily did she finally leap forward to breath life into the dying boy. Sam, feeling particularly useless, backed away from the scene slowly, silently hoping that he had not failed his mission. He was several yards away when the swinging door caught him square in the back. 

"Hey!" 

His back still tingling from the impact of the door, Sam whirled around to see a sargeant -- newly made, Sam guessed, as the man's arms bore only three upper stripes -- hunched over the disheveled stack of papers covering the floor. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry," Sam apologized, noting the high pitch of his recently-acquired accent. "Let me help you." 

"Don't worry, Father. I've almost got everything," came the reply as Sam gingerly knelt down beside the soldier. Their eyes met, and Sam nearly gasped. He knew the face smiling at him; who could ever forget such a face, regardless of how many lives he had experienced. It looked different now, Sam thought. _He_ looked different, so plain and regulation. Where were the frilly frocks and Carmen Miranda turbans and large hoop earrings? 

"Klinger?" Sam ventured cautiously. "Is that you?" 

A bemused expression painted Maxwell Q. Klinger's face. "Gee, I hope so, Father. Either that or I got on somebody else's dogtags." 

Sam nodded quietly. The memories were flooding back now, mixing with Father's Mulcahy's own consciousness. He was back in Korea, back at the 4077th M.A.S.H. Sam lowered his head. _Oh, boy_, he thought, _what now_? 

### * * *

Following the initial heart scare, Father Mulcahy regained consciousness approximately fifteen minutes after the leap. Twenty minutes after waking, Dr. Beeks finally managed to convince the good priest that he had not died and that she was not the Blessed Virgin come to welcome him home, a notion Dr. Beeks found rather amusing. 

"A doctor?" Father Mulcahy inquired, then chuckled. "You'll have to forgive me, but it's rare to see a female doctor these days, much less one who is..." he trailed off, and Dr. Beeks nodded in understanding. The priest still thought he was in 1953, and seeing a black person, a _woman_ to boot, in any type of authority must have come naturally as a surprise. Unoffended, Dr. Beeks put the observation in the back of her mind and continued the priest's checkup. 

"Blood pressure's normal." She released the heavy black strap around Mulcahy's arm and fished inside her bag for a bandage to conceal a minor cut the priest sustained from the earlier attack. She frowned lightly as he involuntarily jerked away from her. Father Mulcahy had been acting fidgety since waking, pestering her with questions with regards to his condition and location. Dr. Beeks could only plead ignorance to him, and technically she was not lying. She still was not one hundred percent sure of his origins, only that he lived in the early 1950s and that he was a Catholic priest. Even his name escaped her. Al had not bothered to reveal any details of the leap when he dashed away to the Imaging Chamber, and Tina was equally clueless. 

Ziggy, the project's super computer and heartbeat of Quantum Leap HQ, was behaving childishly toward the doctor and the rest of the staff, giving them the cold shoulder, as well as a computer without shoulders could do. Something to do with the recent erasure of a video catalog of episodes of _The Simpsons_ that the computer was enjoying between breaks. Dr. Beeks thought it was time for a major computer virus vaccination. 

"Father, please relax, I'm not going to hurt you. I'd like to keep you here for further observation. It's already been cleared with your superior, so you have nothing to worry about." 

Father Mulcahy only shook his head. "I don't get it. I was on my way to Recovery to see about a patient at our MASH unit, and the next thing I realize I'm here, in this..." he said, gesturing about the glowing bluish-white walls of the Waiting Room. To him the place defied description. He looked at the doctor. "Colonel Potter approved of my being here? Why? For what reason?" 

Dr. Beeks looked up from her medical bag, caught completely off-guard. _MASH unit, Colonel Potter_. Why did she know that name? She had expected the priest to mention a bishop or some other higher authority in the Church, not military personnel. 

"You're a military chaplain, then?" 

Father Mulcahy looked as equally shocked as the doctor did. "You didn't know that?" 

Dr. Beeks tapped her chin for a moment. "Yes, of course," she replied quickly in a poor cover-up attempt. "Uh, Father, would you mind excusing me for a second? I should probably double-check our, ah, orders." 

The priest did not budge. He merely nodded, believing he did not have much choice in the matter, though Colonel Potter was definitely going to get an earful when he got back to camp. For lack of anything better to do, Mulcahy bowed his head and began another silent Rosary. 

Dr. Beeks met Gooshie, Tina, and Sammy Jo working closely together before the main control panel, each trying their best to appease the tempermental Ziggy. As long as the computer was going to behave like a spoiled child, they knew this Leap would not pass without a few headaches. Ziggy, who could not get headaches, did not seem to care, though she cooperated fully with the absent Al, but only for Sam's sake. 

After all, Sam did not erase the tapes. 

"Would it be possible to at least know the man's name while I'm checking his vitals?" Dr. Beeks demanded. "Being evasive with the big questions is no problem, but come on! I need to know where and when this man is from before I make a slip." 

Gooshie held up his hands in defeat. "We're doing our best, Verbena. You try getting blood from a pentium chip." He punched a few buttons on his console. "Okay, Ziggy," he said, annoyed. "We've had about enough of your stonewalling, so unless you want Dr. Beckett himself pulling out your plug when he gets back I'd suggest you toe the line." His face colored red, and the three ladies standing around thought simultaneously that Gooshie would explode. 

"You have information for us, Ziggy?" he asked. "Spit it out." 

A pause, then a cold, female voice filled the room. "To quote a modern-day philosopher, Gooshie, '_D'oh_!'" 

Gooshie sighed heavily. "Look, we're sorry about the data, damn it! We're trying to get replacements uploaded as soon as we can." This was a lie, as not so much as five minutes of the old cartoon series could be found within one hundred miles of New Mexico; the show was long out of syndication, and the few Internet contacts Sammy Jo had made wanted exorbitant prices for their copies. 

Wearily, Gooshie looked to his colleagues and solicited suggestions to at least smooth the computer's ruffled feathers. 

Sammy Jo shrugged. "I got some old 'Weird Al' Yankovic stuff in my room. Videos, TV appearances, you know." 

"Will that do, Ziggy?" Gooshie pleaded to the sky. 

"I suppose," Ziggy sighed. Despite her knowledge of every iota of human culture, the name 'Weird Al' Yankovic was foreign to her, but if the guy was yellow with spiked hair and had a snide attitude, Ziggy was sure she would like him. 

Gooshie flashed a thumbs-up sign to Sammy Jo, who bolted for her room to upload her data. 

"Very well, then," Ziggy began cordially, as if the previous unpleasantness never happened, "Dr. Sam Beckett has leaped into the body of one Father Francis Mulcahy in March, 1953. In this time, Father Mulcahy is serving as a chaplain in the Korean Conflict for the 4077th MASH unit. According to my calculations and knowledge of the events in that time, there is a seventy percent chance Dr. Beckett is there to prevent a murder." 

Three pairs of ears pricked up at mention of the MASH. 

"Whether it is the murder of a doctor, soldier, or a Korean civilian, I can not yet say," Ziggy added. "I am still collating obituraries for the time period." 

Tina bubbled over with excitement. "_Hawkeye's_ MASH unit!" she squealed, remembering Sam's first leap to the Korean War, where he displaced Dr. Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce in order to save the man's medical career. What a charmer that Hawkeye was! 

Suddenly her smile disappeared. "Is Hawkeye in trouble again?" she wanted to know, as did everyone else. 

"Drs. Pierce and Hunnicut," Ziggy intoned, referring to the other doctor, BJ Hunnicut, whose career Sam also salvaged during the first leap, "are in no immediate danger, of that I am one hundred percent positive. Ziggy went on to relay that since Sam's initial visit to the MASH, a few personnel changes had been made. 

"Is it the priest then who's in trouble?" Dr. Beeks spoke up at last. 

"No, he is not. I checked all records for Father Mulcahy first. Following the war, he remained in Asia to care for the many orphans left behind after the war, particularly the blind and deaf." Gooshie bowed his head at this. "He contracted yellow fever in the late 1970s and died shortly afterward. The Catholic Church is currently reviewing his life for the beatification process." 

Both Gooshie and Dr. Beeks wrinkled their brows, and Tina broke in with, "That's like the step before canonization. You know, before he's declared Saint Francis Mulcahy." 

"Well, whatever," Gooshie said, detecting Al's presence in 1953 Korea and guiding him toward Sam. "Let us know more when you can tell us, Ziggy." Dr. Beeks, meanwhile, took her leave to see to Father Mulcahy. 

"Certainly," Ziggy replied with a stifled giggle, having discovered the new data uploaded to her memory banks by Sammy Jo. The computer had accessed the film _UHF_ was already enjoying it. 

### * * *

Al found Sam in the priest's quarters, an olive drab structure that stank of standard issue Army mold. It was not the Basilica of St. Peter, but the priest made do per his vow of poverty. Sam moped on the cot, flipping mindlessly through the tattered Bible. 

"Sam!" cried the hologram as he passed easily through Father Mulcahy's desk. Where Al was physically, the desk did not exist, and to him it was like walking through an ethereal world. "Do you have any idea where you are? We're back at the MASH in Korea. Hawkeye Pierce's MASH!" 

Sam did not look up; he only grunted and nodded. Al, however, was too excited to detect his friend's melancholia. 

"Ain't this a kick in the pants? Only this time you're Father Mulcahy, the camp chaplain, but you've no doubt figured that out. Gee, I don't remember seeing him much last time..." Al scoured the data scrolling in his handlink. "You won't believe what's been going on since we were last here. Remember Radar O'Reilly? Short, cute kid with the teddy bear? He went home! His uncle died, though, and so it was a hardship discharge, but at least he's away from all this, huh, Sam?" 

Sam remained still as Al continued to pace the tent. "Oh, you're gonna _love_ this," Al continued, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "Major Frank Burns went a little ca-ca after Margaret Houlihan got married...married!" He checked his handlink again and, after confirming the tidbit, slapped it hard as if it had absconded with the lovely nurse. "Uh, anyway, after a stint in the booby hatch, Frank was sent home to work in a VFW hospital and promoted to Lieutenant Colonel. Can you believe that? I swear, some nozzles have all the luck." 

"Anyway, Sam, he was replaced by some stuffed shirt named Charles Emerson Winchester, III. Well, la-di-da." Al cocked his head and made a face. "He's not quite the jerk Burns was, but he's pretty snooty. Likes to lord his high-brow breeding over people." 

Al's energetic monologue had yet to become infectious, as Sam continued to mope. 

"So Margaret got married to some brick wall named Penobscott..." Al's voice then brightened, "but they divorced after a few months. The crumb was fooling around on her...is he blind or what? But during that time, she and Hawkeye..._hello_!" 

Only now did Sam finally turn to face his friend, who was literally crawling the walls of the tent. "_They did it, Sam_! Danced the horizontal two-step right in the middle of shelling! Why the hell couldn't _you_ have been Hawkeye for that?" 

"What good would that have done?" Sam asked, breaking his silence. 

"What good?" Al mimicked, wide-eyed. "Ever had anything bad come from a little bit of nookie with lady like Margaret Houlihan?" Al then thought a moment about to whom he was speaking. "On second thought, don't answer that. I'm not in the mood for the high school health lecture." 

"Well, I'm not in the mood to give one," Sam grumbled, easing himself off the cot only to slump down in a nearby chair. "I think I just blew my mission." 

He explained Private Fitzgerald's demise, and Al shook his head. "No, that can't be why you're here, Sam. Ziggy says there's an excellent chance a murder is going to happen here. I'm sure that boy wasn't the one." 

"Gee, Al, I'm sorry," Sam retorted snidely. "I thought perhaps he _was_ the one, what with that gaping bullet wound in his stomach. That's not exactly a natural death." 

The handlink chirped and squealed. Remembering Al's last trip through the camp and his fondness for the female figure, Ziggy had taken the liberty of pointing out a cluster of lovely young nurses nearby. 

Ignoring the temptation, Al focused on Sam. "Sam, uh, Ziggy has not determined who is set to be murdered, but I think for your sake you should snap out of this funk. After all, it might be Margaret." 

"Why should that --" Sam began, then noted the seriousness of Al's stare and remembered everything that transpired during his first visit to the MASH. Everything he _could_ remember anyway, as the 'Swiss-cheese' effect leaping had on his brain mixed his memory with that of the priest. Margaret went to Vietnam, Sam recalled, and was stationed in the same hospital that cared for his brother Tom. She saved his life. 

"How could it be Margaret, though?" Sam asked. "If she's murdered here, how could she have gone to Vietnam? What records do you have for her now?" 

"That's the problem, I'm not really sure," Al said apologetically. "Ziggy pulled up everything on Father Mulcahy first and due to a few snafus," Al did not dare mention the fracas with the cartoon, "she's been kind of slow getting info to us." 

Sam rolled his eyes. "Well, why not check on Tom? He's still there in our present time, isn't he?" 

"Hey, there's an idea." Al snapped his fingers and punched a few buttons, his face contorting upon reading the search results. "What?!" 

Sam felt his heart drop to his toes. "What is it?" 

A lump in Al's throat prevented him from speaking immediately, but when he did his voice was grim. "Tom _did_ make it home from Vietnam," he said, "but this time he dies stateside in a doctor's office after complaining of stomach pains." Al did not look up to see the horror on Sam's face. "An autopsy reveals a piece of shrapnel inside him which cut into his kidneys. He bled to death internally." 

Sam pointed his finger at his friend. "I remember something about that. Margaret found the shrapnel during surgery. She saved his life." 

"Yep," Al nodded. "Now it looks like we might have to save hers to save Tom's again." 

### * * *

_So cold. So damn cold._

Margaret Houlihan opened her eyes to pitch black. The ground felt solid underneath her, like ice, and she could not even see her hands in front of her face. 

"What? Where am I?" 

She tried to stand but her legs felt wobbly, as if every muscle in her lower body had atrophied. She tucked her legs underneath her and blinked -- she thought for a moment that maybe she was locked in the supply closet. The space around her, however, was too wide, and as she felt the ground around her she hoped to eventually bump into a clue. She only felt the ground -- hard, cold concrete. 

"Pierce!" she hissed, surprised by the vibrating echo that followed. What had Hawkeye done to her now, she wondered. Hawkeye, the eternal jokester of the 4077th, lived to torture her every free moment he had, if not through the occasional leer over a glass of his homemade hooch, then with an unsuspecting merry prank concocted with his partner in crime, BJ Hunnicut. Usually, Pierce's tricks were quite sophomoric, Margaret knew, escalating no further than a stolen pair of panties. This, however, this was just... 

Margaret was speechless. What on earth could she have possibly done to provoke Pierce, to provoke _anyone_, to do something like this to her? True, to her stable of nurses she was disciplinary and hard-nosed, but she was doing her job. Lives were always at stake and her nurses understood not to take every snap from the major personally. Even with Pierce, Margaret could be cordial, and in the operating room both were strictly professional. The patients always took priority over petty bickering. 

Slowly a faint light from far overhead filtered down upon Margaret, and she jerked her view upward to find its source. Was she in some massive pit, she wondered, perhaps a prisoner of war? The last thing she remembered was going to her tent for a nap before the next wave of casualties. Maybe she was still dreaming? 

"Hello?" she called, wincing at another echo. There was no answer. 

She tried again. "Am I a prisoner here? I don't speak Korean. Could somebody tell me what's going on?" her voice increased in volume and anxiety. Fear stung her eyes and caused tears, which surprised her. Given how much carnage in the form of broken bodies she had seen during her tenure at the 4077th, it amazed her to know that she still had tears left to cry. 

"Please," she whispered to herself. "Please, God, help me." 

### * * *

A sharp rap at Mulcahy's tent door drew Sam's attention away from the hologram. 

Hawkeye Pierce and BJ Hunnicut entered before Sam could acknowledge them. If they held any curiousity towards the surprised look on the priest's face, they paid it no mind. In fact, Sam _was_ surprised to see how much the duo had changed since his last visit. BJ now sported a bushy mustache, while both men displayed dark circles around their eyes. 

Lack of sleep, Sam guessed. That, and lack of peace. 

"Hey, guys!" Al jovially waved the doctors further inside the tent, forgetting for a moment that he could not be seen by them. "Hey, Sam, it's Hawk and Beej!" 

BJ held up a rusted horseshoe. "Hey, Father, got time for a quick game or two before dinner? Afterwards we were thinking of using the leftover meatloaf for the big shuffleboard tournament." 

"We gotta play the horseshoes until then, though," added Hawkeye. "If Sophie doesn't get them back by five she charges double rent." 

Al chuckled at that. "Sophie's the colonel's horse," he told Sam. 

"That's very kind of you to offer," Sam said, struggling to get off the cot, "but I'm just not up to it right now." He put a hand to his head. Why did he feel so woozy all of a sudden? 

Both doctors noticed easily Sam's sudden fatigue, and both approached him with concern. "You okay, Father?" Hawkeye said. "Klinger said you had a mishap in Recovery." 

"More shock than anything else." Sam waved away Hawkeye's hand. "I suppose I was upset about losing Private Fitzgerald." 

"As were the rest of us," BJ nodded. He stepped back to the priest's desk and let his gaze sweep over its contents. An envelope with Fitzgerald's home address rested over unused stationery. 

"I keep thinking I could have done more," Sam confided to them. "Now I wonder if I'm just too late for everything." 

Hawkeye and BJ looked at each other; Al looked at the both of them. Sam was not making sense at all. "Too late for what?" Hawkeye asked. 

Sam threw up his hand. "Everything. Everybody. This war, all of the Private Fitzgeralds of the world and their families. All of you..." Sam looked up to see his friends -- Father Mulcahy's friends, rather -- staring back with bewildered expressions on their faces. Al, standing just behind them, was making a frantic throat-slashing gesture with the handlink, indicating to Sam to be quiet. 

"Somebody here is going to be murdered," Sam stated. "I have to stop it to prevent further death." 

"Sam!" Al was wide-eyed. "Have you gone completely ca-ca? Gooshie!" Al looked up into empty space, pounding handlink buttons with a shaking finger. Abruptly the Door leading back to the control room opened and Al slipped inside. 

Sam watched as the Door swished shut. BJ followed his gaze to a framed portrait of St. Robert Bellarmine. 

"Where did you hear this, about someone getting killed?" Hawkeye demanded. Death was not uncommon at the 4077th, and the unit was hardly without its enemies. It was not unusual for an assassination attempt to happen whenever a Chinese soldier was brought in for repair. Hawkeye treated one such officer the night before, and he was serious about the oath he took as a doctor to protect his patients. Others, however, tended not to care. 

"He's gone." Sam spun around, looking for Al. With Sam's attention drawn away from the doctors, they each stole a questioning glance at the other. 

"Uh, Father," Hawkeye said, pinching BJ's elbow to motion him outside, "maybe we'll just skip that game for now. I think I hear Sophie calling." 

"Oh, okay." Sam appeared suddenly chipper and sat back down on the cot. "Very well, then. See you at dinner." 

"Sure." Hawkeye dragged BJ outside and took a deep breath; neither said a word until they were in the safety of the Swamp. 

BJ whistled. "What the hell was that?" 

Hawkeye poured himself a drink from their makeshift gin still. "Either Mulcahy's been taking Section 8 lessons from Klinger, or this thing with Fitzgerald is really starting to unravel him." 

"Should we tell Potter?" 

Hawkeye nodded. "I'd hate to bother him with this, though. I overheard Klinger on the phone this morning that we're to expect a major influx of wounded within the next twelve hours." 

"Yeah, but we can't just let Mulcahy sit in his tent and go bonkers! What was all that about someone here getting murdered? What if he tries something rash?" 

Hawkeye sipped his cocktail. "I have an idea. Let's go make a phone call." 

### * * *

Major Charles Emerson Winchester III was not having a good day, though if he were to confide in anyone (and thus far nobody at the 4077th appeared worthy of his confidentiality, so he believed) Charles would readily admit that he was not having a good year. As far as Charles was concerned, there was very little good to be had in Korea. 

Losing a patient, naturally, added more salt to the long-festering wounds of war the Boston surgeon suffered. Any other day, nestled in the advanced technological comfort of Boston General, he knew, Private Fitzgerald would have been healed and promising to name his firstborn son after Charles by shift's end. 

"Blast it all." Charles was sitting at Klinger's desk, scribbling a quick message to be sent in a wire to his younger sister. _Urgent. Stop. Send any available Debussy 78 RPMs. Stop. Love to Mom and Dad. Stop_. A terse note it was, Charles knew, but Honoria Winchester had become accustomed to them. Usually a detailed reel-to-reel would follow, with Charles spilling to her all of his pains and frustrations as easily as his patients seemed to spill blood. Only the music she sent could calm his nerves and, if only for a few minutes, make Charles forget that there was a war. 

He had left the message with an even terser note directed at Klinger on the desk and was out the door when a frantic corporal ran into him. 

"You oaf!" The surgeon spat at the young boy. "Don't you ever watch where you're going? I could have been holding a scalpel for all you knew." 

The young soldier let the insult bounce off of him and he saluted quickly. "Sir, I have a wounded man in my jeep. He took some heavy shelling and needs a doctor!" 

"Show me." Charles hurried behind the corporal and found a badly bleeding unconcious teenager stretched awkwardly across the back bench seat of the jeep. Charles noted the growing red blotch covering the boy's abdomen as well as six-inch gash down the right leg. 

Charles checked for vital signs. "He's alive, but not for much longer if we don't get him on a table. I need a stretcher for this patient!" he bellowed to the camp, and like magic two privates appeared and gingerly lifted the wounded man from his resting place, leaving just as quickly for the operating tent. 

Margaret Houlihan cautiously exited the tent as the soldier was being carried inside. "Who is this?" she asked to nobody in particular. 

"Private Fitzgerald," Charles announced, surprising her from behind, his voice dull. "Private _Mark_ Fitzgerald, not the one we lost this morning. I intend to prep him immediately." 

_Fitzgerald_. Margaret's eyes widened. "I'll assist," she said eagerly and nearly dove back into the building, only to be gently pulled away by Charles. 

A noise emitted from the doctor's mouth -- a cross between a chuckle and a sneer. "That's quite all right, Major. Given how slow you were to respond earlier, I'll be taking my chances with Nurse Kellye." He gazed over Margaret and waved to the nurse in the distance. "That will be all, Major." 

Charles pushed past Margaret, who could only stamp her foot in frustration. 

### * * *

Al did not get a chance to speak when he stormed into the control room. Gooshie's mouth was already running like a boat motor. 

"I don't know what's going on with Dr. Beckett, I wish I _knew_ what was going on with Dr. Beckett, and if that fire I lit under Ziggy's, er, _computer chip_ takes effect, she should tell us soon. The end." 

Al closed his mouth, impressed. "Okay, Gooshie. Now recite _War and Peace_," he said snidely, turning away just as Gooshie threw the admiral a dirty look. "Ziggy?" Al called gently to the computer, "What's wrong with Dr. Beckett? Why is he suddenly teetering on the verge of exposing our mission to 1953 Korea?" 

Above their hands, a low snickering echoed through the room. "Ziggy?" Gooshie prodded. 

"Gandhi II...that's funny," Ziggy said to herself. 

"Ziggy!" Al called again, angry this time. "There will be time to watch the funny videos later, not while Sam may be in danger of singing!" 

"But of course, Admiral Calavicci," Ziggy began in a more professional tone, "I have already run diagnostics on Dr. Beckett and Father Mulcahy and found them both to be in excellent physical condition." 

"But?" Al asked. With Ziggy there was always a "but." 

"_But_...I have concluded that there is an eighty-seven percent change that Dr. Beckett's mental capacity may be effected by an undetected energy field in 1953 Korea." 

"What kind of field?" Gooshie wanted to know. 

"If it were detected, I would tell you, sir," came the haughty reply. 

"You think it might have something to do with artillery?" Al wondered aloud. "I overheard a few people in camp mentioning heavy shelling in the vicinity." 

"Negative," Ziggy intoned. "My sensors indicate that the field's source emanates from within the 4077th." 

"I wouldn't think it's the war, anyway," Gooshie offered. "Sam leaped smack into the Vietnam War and operated without any mental problems." 

"Yeah," Al nodded, knowing that was not entirely true. Tom was with Sam at the time, and Al knew Sam must have been going nuts then, knowing that he could not reveal himself to his brother. "Well, keep checking on it, Ziggy, and stay out of the leisure data until you're done." 

"Aye, aye." Al detected a sour note in Ziggy's voice as he bolted back into the Imaging Chamber. 

### * * *

"Private Fitzgerald didn't make it, did he?" 

Dr. Verbena Beeks was searching her bag for an oral thermometer and looked up into Sam's eyes, only they really were not his. The soul and mind of Father Francis Mulcahy existed deep within them now, and those eyes were pleading for at least a scrap of information. 

"I-I don't think so," she eventually muttered, turning away as fresh tears beaded at the corners of the man's eyes. "I'm very sorry." 

Father Mulcahy blessed himself. "I don't get it. He seemed just fine last night. I was so certain he was going to make it. What could possibly have happened to cause him to arrest?" 

Dr. Beeks found what she needed in her bag, and as she reached for it she unearthed her own handlink, blinking at her in a rainbow of flourescent colors. Similar to the device Al used during Leaps, this one was much smaller yet could also link into Ziggy whenever information was needed. Because Verbena was almost always at HQ, the handlink went mainly unused. If she needed information, she had only to walk a few feet to get it. 

"I have an idea." Tentatively she picked up the handlink and punched a button. The palm-sized device purred like a kitten, prompting the priest to look on in amazement. 

"Oh, my," he exclaimed. "I've never seen anything like that before." 

"Um," Verbena searched for a lie. "It's an experimental device, straight from the Pentagon. I'm not at liberty to go into detail." 

Mulcahy nodded. "Well, if they have something like that to heal patients faster, remind me to stop by the gift shop on my way out of here." 

"Here we are." Verbena's eyes grazed over the neon blue text scrolling down the handlink's miniscule data screen, pausing the flow at a paragraph describing Sam Beckett's immediate entry into 1953 Korea. Her voice fell. "Yes, according to our records. Private Andrew Fitzgerald passed away at 0917 hours due to cardiac arrest. Major Charles Winchester III was the attending physician. Apparently an attempt to revive him with a shot of morphine fai--" 

"What?" Mulcahy broke in loudly. "They gave him morphine?" 

"That's what it says here." 

Mulcahy's mouth gaped open in horror. "That can't be! Fitzgerald was allergic to morphine. It said so on his chart!" 

### * * *

Colonel Sherman T. Potter, dressed in a pair of old-fashioned jodpurs and a simple button-down shirt, stared down at the empty cot and shook his head sadly. He and his wife Mildred never had any sons -- just one daughter, now grown and married -- and he had come to regard all of the wounded soldiers carted into his unit as his own boys. For every one lost to death, it was like a stab to the heart for the aging colonel, as if he had lost his own son. Andrew Fitzgerald was no different; a faint smile played on Colonel Potter's lips as he tried to recall the boy's smiling face and shock of red hair. 

"Prep this one for our next lucky visitor," he ordered of Nurse Eddy, gesturing to the rumpled cot. The young nurse murmured a "yessir" and immediately stripped the sheets, bothered by the sarcasm tinging the old man's voice. Death had a way of affecting the 4077th staff for the worse. The old colonel then turned to exit toward his office when a familiar figure ambled through the door -- tall, dark, and and smiling grimly. 

"Well, well, it's nice for once to see a man in uniform come in here without the aid of a stretcher," Potter smiled, grasping the other man's hand in a hearty shake. "Sidney, always a pleasure to see you! Am I to understand that there's a plague of sick minds as well as sick bodies at my camp?" 

Major Sidney Freedman, the Army's affable traveling psychiatrist, shook his head. "I wish this was a social call, Colonel. You know how much I enjoy a good game of poker while Tex Ritter croons from a scratchy vinyl platter." 

"We'll just have to make time, then. Now let me guess: you're hear to evaluate Max Klinger because he's stopped wearing those dresses and now the Army is finally convinced he's gone bonkers." 

Sidney chuckled. "That's too bad, I rather liked Klinger in his chiffons. Makes me all the more grateful to see my wife when I get home." He face fell immediately. "I take it Drs. Pierce and Hunnicut haven't appraised you of recent developments." 

Colonel Potter arched an eyebrow. It was not like Hawkeye and BJ to go over his head where patients and other issues were concerned, and for a brief moment he wondered if perhaps either one of them needed Freedman's help. More wounded were due to arrive soon, and Potter knew the absence of one surgeon could mean the difference between saving all and saving some of their patients. 

"Actually, Sidney," he began, "I haven't seen much of anybody this morning. I took advantage of our lull to stretch Sophie's legs." Both men started out of the building. "Why don't we go in my office for a drink? I have a feeling I'm going to need one." 

### * * *

"So it's not Margaret?" 

Al watched Sam pace the priest's quarters. "Nope." 

"And it's neither Hawkeye nor Pierce?" 

"I told you that already, Sam," Al insisted. "Says so right here on the handlink. You fixed everything for them the first time you were here. Hawkeye takes over his father's practice in Maine, does quite well for himself, I should add. BJ becomes chief of surgery at San Francisco General and he and Peg have four more kids!" 

For lack of anywhere else to walk, as he had covered nearly every square inch of Father Mulcahy's tent, Sam slumped back down on the cot. "Thank God," Al nearly shouted. "You were making me dizzy." 

"Not now," Sam snapped, his mind on his brother Tom. He needed to keep his head clear, careful not to have another outburst in front of the camp's officers. Sam was certain Hawkeye and BJ believed that he -- that Father Mulcahy -- was starting to unravel. What caused me to do that, he wondered silently. To reveal, even partially, any details of his missions could jeopardize the future. Sam hoped that by opening his big mouth he did not also open a world of trouble for the priest. 

"You feeling any better, Sam?" Al asked cautiously. Dealing with Ziggy's temperment was enough, and Al knew it was going to take much more than a cache of "Weird Al" Yankovic videos to get Sam back on track. 

"Yeah," Sam said, though Al was still not convinced. People were starting to surround the tent, peering curiously through the open flaps as Sam waved his arms and paced, talking to himself. If the actions were a part of some charismatic prayer with which the priest was experimenting, nobody was certain. Al, however, knew from his own experiences in the armed forces that gossip often spread faster than VD. 

A sharp rap on the tent door startled them both, and they looked at each other quizzingly. Al checked his handlink. "Hoo boy," he breathed. 

"What?" Sam wanted to know. "What is it?" 

"Sorry to disturb you, Father," Sidney Freedman's voice punctured the tent. "Do you have some time to spare?" 

Sam looked pleadingly at Al. The voice was foreign to him. 

"Uh, okay, Sam." Al rapidly poked the handlink. "Major Sidney Freedman, Army shrink. He's helped Hawkeye in the past a few times with anxiety and other stuff. My guess is that Hawk saw you going crackers and called him in." 

"A psychiatrist?" Sam hissed. "I don't need a psychiatrist. I _am_ a psychiatrist! Don't I have that degree?" 

Al shook his head, ticking off Sam's numerous doctorate degrees on his fingers. "No, Sam. That Swiss-cheese effect is getting to you. Your degrees are in quantum physics and medicine, and--" 

"I _know_ what my degrees are in, Al!" Sam clenched his teeth. 

"Father?" inquired Sidney from the other side of the door. "You okay?" 

"Uh, just a minute!" Sam called to the closed door. Panicked, he grabbed a stack of disheveled objects on the priest's desk and straightened them into one neat pile. He was sitting in Father Mulcahy's chair in front of an open Bible when he finally invited Sidney inside. 

"Major Freedman," Sam greeted him warmly. "What brings you to the 4077th?" 

Sidney cast a suspicious glance around the tent. "Oh, I was at the 8063rd answering a psych consult, and I figure I'd stop over on the way back to Seoul, jump into a card game, maybe have a sip of Hawkeye's homemade swill." 

"You'll want to be at the Swamp for that kind of action," Sam said, wishing he was there now. He rarely drank, though right now even a glass of the doctor's makeshift martini mix sounded good. "All I can offer you here is a challenging discussion in Scripture and a chance at confession. Interested?" 

Sidney chuckled. "Father, you know I'm Jewish." 

"Well, that's certainly not a sin." 

"Right." Sidney helped himself to a vacant chair and scooted it next to Sam as the Leaper and Hologram watched. Suddenly a sharp whine from the handlink filled the brief silence. 

"Ooh, Sam, I should check on this," Al said, punching a button and disappearing into thin air. Sam turned his head quickly to where his friend once stood. Sidney followed his gaze to a tacked-up holy card of St. Ignatius. 

"Friend of yours?" Sidney cocked his head toward the photo. 

"Ignatius of Loyola founded the Jesuit Order. My order," Sam said as if reciting from an encyclopedia. 

"I see," Sidney nodded, folding his hands over his crossed knee. Sam sighed heavily. This was not a social visit, a notion he immediately relayed to the psychiatrist. 

"I should know better than to try to put one over on a priest," Sidney admitted, becoming more serious. "I have it from a good source that you're not doing too well. Something to do with a soldier dying." 

Damn, Sam thought. "Hawkeye asked you to come here," Sam stated as the doctor nodded, confirming Al's guess. "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Major, but I'm perfectly fine. In fact, I've never felt better, emotionally or spiritually. I'm afraid Hawkeye dragged you over here for nothing," he faltered, adding, "if one can call what comes from his still 'nothing.'" 

"I don't believe you, Father. You look stiffer than a corpse, and you've always called me by my first name. What's wrong?" The question sounded to Sam more like a demand than a friendly query. 

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat. Oh, boy, he thought. He was going to ruin his mission right here, all because he could not even fool a shrink, despite the fact that he looked like Father Mulcahy. _Tom, please don't die because of me, because of my foolishness. Al, where are you? Why don't you have all the information I need so I can leap?_

As if the Hologram had read his thoughts, Al exploded into the tent, a vision of bright orange fabric and waving arms. "Sam! Come quick!" 

"What?" Sam jumped from his chair. 

Sidney, now startled, said, "I didn't say anything." 

"Sam, you have to get to Recovery right now!" Al shouted. "Ziggy says there's a ninety-five percent chance the murder is going to happen in the next two minutes!" 

"Uh, Father," Sidney too stood and tried to calm the agitated priest in front him who appeared to be straining to hear inaudible voices. "Why don't we sit down--" 

But Sam had already pushed past Sidney and was sprinting toward the permanent medical building. 

### * * *

_The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want..._

Margaret Houlihan shook her head, pacing the dark confines of her cell, if it could be called that. There were no iron bars trapping her inside, but no doors to allow her a way home. Just black, solid, clausterphobic black. 

"He leads me...He leads me...uh." 

Oh, forget it, she told herself. She had not picked up a Bible since Confirmation, and even then it was only to use as a diversion while elderly Father MacLaughlin droned on and on about the Pentcost. She could not even remember a simple prayer. 

"I'm such an idiot!" she cried, wincing as her voice echoed and bounced about the room, vibrating in her ears into eerie silence. She began to cry. 

"Where am I?" she whispered, sniffing back tears. "Why won't somebody help me?" 

### * * *

"Hey, Padre, I'm walking here!" 

Sam muttered a hasty apology to Private Igor after ramming into him on the way to the medical tent. Hawkeye and BJ, strolling toward the Officer's Club for some liquid cheer, caught sight of Father Mulcahy sprinting around camp. 

"He training for the Helsinki 100-meter dash?" BJ wondered aloud. "Somebody should tell him the Olympics were _last_ year." 

When they noticed Sidney Freedman huffing along behind the priest, they sprang into action, breaking into a brisk jog toward the medical building. By the time both doctors burst into Recovery, they saw Sidney trying to calm down an agitated Father Mulcahy as Nurse Kellye and Max Klinger looked on in shock. The priest's hands were clamped around Margaret Houlihan's wrists, forcing her to drop a full syringe on the floor. 

Only it was not the real Major Margaret Houlihan. Sam had exploded through the swinging door to Recovery just as "Margaret" was about to inject something into a prone soldier's arm. Al's desparate voice filled his ears. 

"Over here, Sam!" Al waved over toward Margaret like a frantic air traffic controller. "Ziggy says that stuff will kill him unless you stop her!" 

"Nurse! Don't!" Sam lunged toward Margaret, who turned in surprise to see the priest about to attack. He managed to grab her arms just before she could break the boy's skin. 

Then it happened. Margaret's honey complexion and soft, round face melted into a chiseled scowl, and her hair darkened and shrank several inches. Within seconds, Sam was looking at a woman with whom he had tangled previously in the undercurrents of time -- Alia, another Leaper. 

Unfortunately, this Leaper possessed a different sense of good and evil. 

Sam's features took prominence as they touched, and Alia too could see through the priest. "You!" she whispered, shocked. 

"Alia," he cried. "What are you doing, how could you --" 

The loud slam of the door against a metal cabinet startled everyone in the room. "All right, what's all the hubbub?" Colonel Potter wanted to know, charging toward the cot and snatching the needle Kellye picked up from the floor. Potter harumphed. "Fine waste of codeine, this is. Okay, I want answers. Who's going to give them?" 

Everyone in the room looked around at each other with puzzled expressions. Everything had happened too fast for everyone's tastes, and suddenly there was a reluctance to speak among some of the most vocal members of the 4077th. Sam kept mum for a different reason: anything out of his mouth could easily alter the future for the worse. 

"Sam, Mark Fitzgerald is allergic to codeine," Al revealed, staring at his handlink. "You better say something quick before Sidney does so first." 

Sam bowed his head. Al needed to know about Alia, but he could not say anything in a room full of people. He noticed his tight grip on the woman's arm and released it. Alia rubbed the sore wrist. 

"I'm sorry, Colonel," Sam chuckled awkwardly, "but all this appears to my doing. See, I noticed Major Houlihan here about to administer the shot to Private Fitzgerald when I remembered distinctly that he was allergic to codeine. I couldn't let her make that mistake." 

Colonel Potter nodded, appearing to accept the explanation, but Hawkeye was not convinced. 

"Wait a second, Father. How could you know there was codeine in the syringe? Or that Fitzgerald here is allergic to it? We were all in your tent when this soldier was brought in." 

"He's right," confirmed BJ. 

Sam, flustered, looked down at the unconscious boy. "Well, it's on his chart, isn't it?" he asked to nobody in particular, bending down to retrieve the clipboard, which Potter took eagerly. 

"Sorry, Padre, says here it's _morphine_. Still, why you'd shoot that stuff through the boy's veins is a mystery to me, Major," he told Alia. 

"Let me see that." Sam peered over the old man's shoulder and blinked. Potter was right, morphine was scrawled on the chart in a doctor's chicken-scratch, along with some other information. He tried not to notice when Al moved in closer as well, appearing to mesh with Colonel Potter as he verified the chart. 

"Oh, Sam, this ain't right. This is the chart for the other Fitzgerald that died this morning. Somebody made a switch." 

As Sam listened to his hologram guide, Alia, as Margaret, apologized profusely for her error and swore to be more careful. "Father," she clasped Sam's shoulder, "thank you so much for the warning." 

"Any-any time, Major." Sam tried to sound cheerful, but he found it difficult to do so, knowing that Margaret would indeed be the camp's murderer, at least according to everyone else in camp. 

### * * *

"Who is Alia, Father?" 

Sam hunched over a mug of coffee in the mess tent, sitting alone with Sidney Freedman at a long table while the mess crew buzzed around the tent, oblivious to the two as they prepared for dinner. He did not want to be there, but the psychiatrist insisted. He wanted to be near Alia/Margaret and keep a close watch on her. Al was doing that now. 

"Who?" 

Sidney took a sip from his own mug and grimaced at the bitter taste. "In Recovery, you said the name _Alia_. You said it in a whisper, so maybe nobody else heard you. I did, though." 

"Well, you're familiar with the story of St. Alia of Ireland, patroness of the dying?" 

The doctor slowly shook his head. "That's a new one for me. I never had a chance to study much about the saints in Hebrew school." 

Sam pushed away his own mug. "It's an interesting story. I'll tell it to you sometime. Right now," he stood and pretended to yawn, "I'm beat. So if I could..." 

"No need, Father. I know when I'm getting the heave ho." Sidney also stood and straightened his shirt. "But don't think you can turn tail and run every you see me coming. We _will_ talk later. Doctor's orders." With that, Sidney ambled out of the mess tent and toward the Swamp. 

_Oh, boy_. Sam slumped back down in his seat, oblivious to Private Igor as he replaced salt and pepper shakers on the table. 

Seconds later, Al materialized next to the Leaper. 

"Don't talk, just listen," he began, aware of Igor's presence and careful to let anyone else at the unit think Father Mulcahy was losing his mind. "Alia's in Margaret's tent now, because Potter relieved her of duty for the rest of the day. I didn't see _her_ gabbing to herself, so her hologram's not around right now I couldn't figure out why she's here." 

Sam nodded in acknowledgement. 

"Anyway, Ziggy says there's an eighty-six percent chance that the Army is going to investigate Margaret for the wrongful death of Andrew Fitzgerald. Ninety percent chance she's convicted and discharged, which means she doesn't go to Vietnam." 

Which means Margaret can't save Tom's life there, Sam finished the thought silently. 

"This all happens on account of Charles Winchester," Al made a face, "discovering the discrepencies in the charts and figuring that since Margaret was present for both incidents, that she must have had something to do with it." 

Sam desparately wanted to ask Al for suggestions to salvage their confusing leap, but more bodies were shuffling into the mess for dinner. Instead he mumbled, "Follow me," and started toward the door. 

"You say something, Father?" Igor asked as he slammed down a bottle of ketchup. 

"Oh, no, Igor," Sam assured him. "I was just...praying for your soul." 

The private nodded. "Yeah, well, could you say a prayer for my feet, too? They're killing me." 

### * * *

"Enter!" called Alia, her back to Margaret's door. She had no idea that in a matter of seconds she would be once again meeting up with her time-conscious adversary. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sam demanded, his voice low and seething. 

Alia was seated at the vanity wearing one of Margaret's silk kimonos, bought on a recent trip to Toyko. Her body stiffened at the sound of Sam's voice. To her, nothing of the priest existed. "I would ask you the same thing, Beckett." 

Sam charged around the small table to face Alia. His own face was colored deep red. "What is your mission, Alia? To kill an innocent human being? To destroy the life and career of an Army nurse, thereby destroying many more lives in the future?" 

Alia fiddled with Margaret's nail file, clutching it with a white grip. Sam wondered briefly if she was planning to leap forward and attack him with it. "You couldn't possibly understand why I'm here and what I have to do," she said finally. "I have to prevent somebody here from going back to the United States." 

Unbeknownst to Alia, Al's image filtered through the closed tent door. Sam kept his eyes fixed on Alia so she would not become suspicious. If Alia's hologram was present, however, neither Sam nor Al could ever know. 

"You already killed Andrew Fitzgerald," Sam accused her. "You gave him a lethal dose of morphine, to which he was allergic." 

"_That_ was an error," Alia said pointedly, "and for that I'm sorry. I was only told that somebody named Fitzgerald had to be stalled here." She lowered her head. "I never saw his chart. I guess he was the wrong one." 

"Sorry, Hell." Al was livid. "Andrew Fitzgerald was supposed to be a lawyer. Had he lived he would have helped many of the midwest farmers save their farms during recent money crunches." The handlink chirped in his hand. "Does she even realize how much damage control will have to be done now?" 

Sam pretended not to hear; he focused on Alia. "This Fitzgerald boy is not going to die as well. You understand that?" 

"B-but I won't leap if I don't..." 

"And if you do, an innocent boy will die and a nurse with a near perfect record will be ruined, and many more innocent boys will die in the Vietnam War because she won't be there to help them. Is your mission worth all that blood on your hands?" 

Alia was crying now. In the few times she and Sam met up in time, he always had that affect on her. 

"Your mission was to keep him from going stateside," he said, "you mentioned nothing earlier about killing. Why must he stay?" 

"Uh, Sam, I can answer that," Al offered. "Mark Fitzgerald's father is in the hospital. Lung cancer. Ziggy says in the original history Mark gets home in time to say goodbye and straighten out the family expenses." 

Alia noticed Sam flinch. "Your hologram is here, right? He's probably telling you everything you need to know." She folded her arms. 

"What happens if Fitzgerald doesn't get home before his dad dies?" Alia remained silent, and Sam grasped her shoulders. "Answer me!" 

"H-his father did not write a will," Alia admitted weakly. "If Mark stays here, Zoey told me that his uncle would take everything and I could leap." 

"Well," Al huffed, "_Ziggy_ says if that happens, then Mark's uncle squanders the family finances and Mark doesn't go to medical school. He doesn't become a doctor and many more lives in Vietnam are lost because guess who was supposed to go?" 

Sam felt his heart turn to stone. "Al, what was the name of the doctor who operated on Tom?" 

Al checked his handlink, but no information was found. "Sam, you don't think?" he asked, now worried himself. 

Sam tightened his grip on Alia, who cried out in pain. 

"I'm not letting you out of my sight," he told her with such authority that even Al shuddered in the Imaging Chamber. "I don't give a damn what your mission is, or what happens to you if you fail, but I lost my brother once and I'll be damned if you're going to take him away again." 

"You don't know if Mark Fitzgerald is your brother's doctor or not," Alia shot back. "What does it matter to you?" 

"It matters that other men like my brother are at risk." His gaze drifted to his friend, a former POW. "More than you will ever know. Al," he nodded to the hologram, "what's our timeline?" 

"Believe it or not, Sam, Ziggy says if you can hold on for three more hours, we're home free." 

"Good." 

With one strong yank, Sam had Alia out of her chair. "Let's make use of that time, shall we?" he said. It was not a request. 

"Doing what?" Alia tried to sound brave, but secretly she feared the wrath of yet another failure. 

"I'm a priest this time. So we pray." 

He glared at Al and added, " We _all_ pray." 

"Uh, Sam," Al began, but another forceful look from the Leaper closed his mouth. Al made a reluctant Sign of the Cross, wondering if it was worth the trouble. Sam did the same, feeling no other recourse. A higher power brought them to the Korean War, and now they needed His help. 

Alia, kneeling on the dirty floor beside Sam, lowered her eyes and struggled to mimic his movements. As her fingers touched her forehead, then her heart, she felt sharp sensations of pain. She bit her lip so as not to cry out, but as she tried to complete the cross the pain intensified and she let out a piercing howl. 

"Alia?" Sam bent toward her. 

Alia's body quaked and her breathing grew shallow. With one last pleading look at Sam, she thrust her head back and cried again. 

When she lurched forward, Alia was gone. Margaret Houlihan had returned, and collapsed. 

### * * *

"I gave her a sedative. She'll be okay," BJ told Sam, who had waited outside Margaret's tent for news. "So she just had a fit, just like that?" 

Sam nodded. "Maybe it was stress-related, but I did not want to take any chances." 

The doctor patted Sam's shoulder. "You did right, don't worry. Join us in the Swamp for a drink?" 

Sam knew that _us_ would likely include Sidney Freedman. "I'll catch up to you," he answered, and BJ departed with a smile. 

Alone again, Al sidled up to Sam. "You want to tell me now what the hell just happened in there?" 

"I don't know, and I wish I did. I guess there's something to be said about the power of prayer." 

"Rather the power of the _intent_ to pray, seeing as how none of us got very far before Alia launched into her Linda Blair impersonation," Al grumbled. 

Sam threw a sly look at his friend. "Al?" 

The hologram appeared suddenly frustrated. "Okay, so I might have prayed a little bit during this leap. It's not been the easiest one, you know!" 

"So what now?" 

Frustration morphed into melancholy, and Al's face sagged. "Fitzgerald's going to be okay. He goes home next week, and the finances are sorted out, so that's good news." 

"And Margaret?" 

Al sighed. "Charles Winchester went to see Potter while were inside with Alia, so that ball is already rolling. Sam, she still gets kicked out!" 

"Damn!" Sam slammed his fist against the doorframe of Margaret's tent, then seethed silently, knowing the nurse was still sleeping inside. "You have no idea who switched those charts?" 

"Ziggy says there's a ninety-seven percent chance it was just a goof-up, nothing malicious intended. Could be one of the other nurses did it, but she's too afraid for her job to say anything. A man died, that's serious business." 

Sam scratched his chin. "So Alia must have been sincere, that death was an accident." 

"Uh, Sam? What are we going to do?" 

Sam thought a moment and looked down at his shoes, catching the glint of the crucifix hanging around his neck. "Al," he began. "What would happen if Father Mulcahy took the rap for the charts?" 

"Mulcahy? Huh." Al consulted the link to Ziggy. "He's disciplined severely, but after a lengthy investigation he doesn't get discharged, so basically his future is unchanged." 

An anguished squeal erupted from the device. "Uh oh," Al added. 

"What is it?" 

"Well, Ziggy says if you do this, it might affect that whole canonization thing that's going on right now." 

"So Mulcahy isn't named a saint?" 

Al shook his head. "That's not been determined. It's still going on in our time." 

Sam smiled and started toward Potter's office. "I wouldn't worry about it, and I don't think Father Mulcahy would, either. I'm sure there are a lot of saints in Heaven we don't know about. Just getting there is reward enough." 

"Okay, Sam, whatever." Al loped along beside Sam. "So we leap?" 

"We leap." 

But they did not move. 

"Did we miss something?" Sam asked. 

"I don't know." Al slapped the handlink, thinking perhaps Ziggy was once again too engrossed in the "Weird Al" Yankovic videos. "We're good to go. I don't know why we're still here, unless you still have something to do here." 

"Maybe you have something to do back home," Sam suggested. 

### * * *

Father Mulcahy was alert, and feeling much better, his grief over the late Private Fitzgerald notwithstanding. Al greeted him in the Waiting Room with a warm smile. 

"We should be getting you back to the 4077th soon, Father." 

Mulchay beamed. "That's wonderful. Did you accomplish everything in your mission?" 

"More or less." Visions of a contorted Alia continued to flash in Al's mind. "But before we let go...I...kinda wanted to ask you something." 

Father patted a square block next to him. "Have a seat. If everything is _status quo_ at camp, I suppose I could spare some time." 

"Thanks." Al took the seat and removed his hat. "Uh, I've been away from the Church for a long time, Father. Away from God as well. I guess I just wanted to talk." 

The priest's smile, seen on Dr. Sam Beckett's face, was sympathetic and comforting. "You're talking now. Don't let me stop you." 

Al talked. Then he and the priest prayed. 

Then Father Mulcahy went back to Korea. 

And Al felt better, too.   


### THE END

Written 1999 Kathryn Lively

   [1]: mailto:kathrynlively@yahoo.com
   [2]: qlmash.html



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